Tour of the Enchantments

The Stuart Range lies between dry desert and verdant forests. A topography of steep, weather-worn granite towers, of which ten rank among the 100 highest peaks in Washington State, dominates the glacial-carved valleys. Cupped in every low spot are lakes. They reside where once mighty glaciers ruled, fragments and fading memories of those glaciers’ ancient glory. Tangible reminders of those glaciers persist in the alpine, sheltered in the dark recesses between cliff, ridge or buttress. Found within those sanctuaries are five named glaciers in the Stuart Range. With names like Icicle Creek and Snow Creek, long ago pioneers recognized their sources too. In fact, it was one early surveyor and forest supervisor that named the Enchantments.

He wrote, „There I found five or six most beautiful small lakes, grouped in a wonderful little glacial valley, all ringed with alpine larch. From the highest up [Talisman Lake], over an entrancing fall, tumbled the water it received from a small glacier [Snow Creek Glacier]. It was an enchanting scene. I named the group Enchantment Lakes.“ Later the name was applied to the entire region. It was in this place that I met Carl Simpson and Matt Leitzinger at 8:00 am. With packs loaded we began the climb up a snowed-in road for four miles to the Colchuck Lake trailhead. As we left the road a mangled skin track led through the forest to the lake. From there all signs of people were left behind and we forged a beautiful track to Aasgard Pass.

After 5,600 feet of ascent we sheltered from the cold behind King Kong’s rock collection. Spread out before us was what we’d come for. Somehow the Enchantments take my breath away no matter how often I see them. From the summit of West Annapurna we descended in full packs like a flock of birds. Camp was spectacular. From the rim of the valley we overlooked Inspiration Lake. A 6x12-foot porch of granite was our centerpiece. “Hell yeah,” rang in the air. Each and all had a pull of whiskey. Sunset and stars soldiered on. Sleep was deep and revitalizing. Good camps are food for the soul. On day two we climbed Dragontail Peak standing mighty under sharp blue skies. The biting wind of the day before had been chased far to the east.

Its memory was replaced with calm serenity and abiding happiness that couldn’t be ruffled, even when we ran into three other skiers. If anything I felt sorry for these fellow snow sliders, because where there is powder, we no longer know how to behave. And so it was. Once that day turned to night, darkness to sunrise, we rose and readied for our last day. Between camp and our destination lay untracked vistas, escarpments of rock, pockets of alpine trees and more perfectly set lakes, diamonds all. Hours later, on the summit of Cannon Mountain, I stood with shaky legs and whooped. What I saw was not only the way we’d come but also the places I’d gone to, windows into past adventures strung out like apartment buildings.

Back on our skis three main couloirs descended from the summit of Cannon Mountain. None of these are, in fact, the better-known Cannon Mountain Couloir, which is nowhere near its namesake peak, but rather on a sub-summit more than a mile away! That being said, this bonus couloir rang with more yells and the swoosh of turns. As I climbed the actual Cannon Mountain Couloir a few hours later I felt like winter’s last hurrah was still lay below me. I couldn’t think of a better send-off, especially for the wild and unpredictable season 2021-22 in the Pacific Northwest.

None of those thoughts persisted, though, because, without much of a pause, we flew from the top like a cannonball, bouncing from one to the other until we came to rest on the flats at the tree line. Satisfaction sung in our veins, but there’s always a price with most ski mountaineering. A final tangle of forest and slide alder was anted up, and we bet we could ski it all the way. It wasn’t until I reached for one of those trees that I had to cope with crashing full tilt into the brambles. It took a full ten minutes to extradite myself! To make matters worse, just a stone’s throw from the road, I slipped on a submerged rock and face-planted into the shore. Dripping like a wet dog I crawled onto the road.

Looking up our line was lost in six thousand feet of terrain. Every person’s idea of what is or isn’t an enchanting adventure is different. Being an odd duck, this was a fairytale ending for me. Now, if I could only click the heels of my ski boots twice, would a carriage come to transport me the last miles of snowed-in road to my car?